


Resilient

by nativemossy



Series: Before The Rain Began [1]
Category: Iron Man (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Depression, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Therapy, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nativemossy/pseuds/nativemossy
Summary: Anthony "Tony" Carbonell, disinherited son of a billionaire, proud graduate of a community college in nowhere New Jersey, and out-and-proud bisexual is the proprietor of a small coffee shop by the name of Resilient. Now that his life has settled down he's beginning to suspect that he might have a few problems that are making work much harder than it needs to be.James "Bucky" Barnes, disabled veteran, hermit, and long-suffering best friend has returned from Afghanistan to a world that he doesn't quite know how to live in. He wants to contribute more to the world than sitting on his couch and collecting his check every month, but is having a hard time gathering the energy to do much more than tie his shoes.A coffee shop full of meddling friends might be just the place where both men can find a place to heal and move on, hopefully together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> I combined the prompts "Tony has a chronic illness that he hides well but takes him out of commission sometimes. (major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, ptsd, seizures, MS, fibro, some other chronic illness) Bucky finds his own recovery easier with someone to take care of and helps Tony as much as he can and tries to learn all he can about whatever's wrong with Tony." and "Coffee Shop AU" to produce this monster. The wordcount got away from me, as you can see lmao
> 
> I tagged tony and bucky as their comics versions, but in all truth their characterizations are a strange amalgamation of that, the mcu, and my own personal headcanons and experiences.
> 
> betaed by the super rockin cool [siwussy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siwussy/works), who took time out of his finals recovery to yell at me about similes and polysyndeton, whatever that may be.

Bucky loved Steve a lot, really he did. He had known the kid since before he knew how to read, and hung on like a limpet through the following twenty years or so. As a result, he had it on good authority that Steve loved him as well. 

Keeping this in mind, Bucky was doing his best not to strangle him through the laptop screen.

“Really Buck, you should let him drag you out at least once. I worry about calling one day only to hear that you’ve rotted away in that apartment.” Steve fretted, looking like a loon with his shoulders barely fitting in the camera feed. His baritone was dampened by the shitty audio, but even through that Bucky could hear that he was genuinely worried.

Bucky took a moment to just sit and breathe. He knew that Steve meant well; hell, he probably even had a point. Bucky couldn’t with any confidence say the last time he put on actual pants, let alone left the apartment for any length of time more than to grab the mail. He was supposed to attend regular therapy sessions at the VA, but he skipped those far more often than he showed up. He didn’t really see a need to leave. Since he enlisted there’s been all sorts of new developments stateside -- he could get groceries delivered, books and movies were all on his computer now, and his laundry could be done in the apartment. 

Case in point - there was no reason for Bucky to go through the stress of leaving the house.

“Steve,” He began, feeling the urge to hang up slowly creeping in. “It’s really not an issue. Drop it.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed at the tone and Bucky winced. Yeah, maybe that was a little too firm.

See, Steve had been trying to convince Bucky to “get out and socialize” since a few weeks after Bucky had settled in. His friend Sam (whom Bucky had no idea existed until he was accosted after a particularly harrowing afternoon at the VA) came around roughly once a week, knocking at the door until he got tired of waiting around for an answer that wouldn’t come. Bucky was banking on the hope that Sam would eventually give up, but Steve had this weird way about him that inspired loyalty and perseverance and other such bullshit.

Not that Bucky wasn’t endlessly loyal to Steve, he just had enough experience with the guy to be able to look past his bravado and see the same scrawny kid from the rougher part of Brooklyn that he ran around with. It was heartening how much he worried, and to some extent he could appreciate Sam’s second-hand concern, but the smothering was gonna make him break out into hives.

“Bucky-!”

“Okay! Fine!” He interrupted, feeling Steve’s glare cut holes into his skull. “Next time Sam comes knocking at the door, I’ll go!” Steve looked a little too excited about this development, so Bucky backpedaled. “Just for an afternoon, that’s it. A few hours. Three max.”

Steve was smiling a dopey grin, looking for all the world like Christmas came early. His eyes crinkled up at the corners like when he was genuinely pleased, and Bucky felt himself relax slightly, his shoulders coming down from where they had come to rest somewhere around his ears. Steve sat back in his chair, opening his mouth to say something that likely would have make Bucky want to sock him in the jaw.

He cut himself off when someone knocked at the door, his face morphing into the stern but placid expression that his unit had fondly called his “command face.” He turned around to face the visitor who stood just out of frame, then turned back to Bucky. “That’s me,” He began, looking rueful. “Take care of yourself Buck.” He ordered, a hint of steel telling Bucky that he really wasn’t messing around this time.

Bucky summoned up a smile, feeling stiff as he moved to end the chat. “You too pal, you’re the one in danger out there. Don’t die,” he muttered, feeling brittle as Steve hung up with a grin and a mock-salute.

Bucky was left with a black screen and the reflection of himself. He frowned, watching the spectre in the reflection mirror him. He raised a hand to his chin, feeling the raspy beginnings of a beard there. He grimaced, shutting the laptop - with perhaps a bit too much force - as he stood, walking to the bathroom. If he was actually going to humor Steve he may as well shave.

* * *

 

Tony Carbonell would like to consider himself a good man.

That wasn’t a quick conclusion, in fact it had taken him many years of on-again off-again thinking to figure out. He spent much of his early twenties concerned he was becoming his father; with depressive episodes becoming drinking binges, which became missed classes, which lead to him being angry with himself, which lead to more drinking, and so on. He finally quit when he woke up in a hospital bed, Pepper and Rhodey slumped together on a couple of the shitty hospital chairs. After a truly impressive - and humbling - lecture from Pepper, Tony learned that he had his stomach pumped and very nearly died. In the darkness of the hospital room after visiting hours he figured it may have served him right if he had.

Tony had a difficult relationship with the concept of his father. He spent his entire childhood attempting to please a man who could never be pleased. He did well in school, skipped grades, tried his best to mind his manners - though in his excitement he sometimes forgot. No matter what he did it never seemed to be enough. His mother tried; she spent entire afternoons trying to keep Tony occupied, baking and cooking and reading and the like. This carried on for a while, and Tony was almost happy. All it took was one disapproving comment from Howard, though, and he begged off any more “womanish” activities. 

Tony could still remember some snippets from life as a Stark. His mother’s perfume, Howard’s whiskey. He remembered one time when he was very young he had come down with the flu and had a terrible fever. He remembered the calming chill of his mother’s hand as she brushed his sweat-slick hair off his forehead, muttering to him in a soothing, unintelligible stream of Italian. He remembered scraped knees in the garden, and he remembered the sting of a slap right after it hit. He remembered coming home from school and feeling the silence of the house, doing his best to make himself smaller, less of a target. He remembered crying until he threw up the first time he tried to speak up for himself, and Howard backhanded him into the carpet. He was seven.

Tony remembered finally coming to a peace with the reality of his father. He knew that he could never be what Howard wanted, and he figured Howard had made peace with his failure of a son years ago. So he stopped trying. He stopped studying, stopped constantly monitoring his own behavior, and just generally stopped caring. Tony could never live up to the image of Anthony Edward Stark that was expected of him, so he stopped trying entirely.

Tony started staying out later, and, yeah, maybe started hanging out with a “different” crowd. A girlfriend who was a few years older and a bit wilder than he was introduced him to the bar scene, and Tony practically fell in love. The rowdy noise and the neon glow drew him in, and the people he found there convinced him to stay. They were gritty and rough in a way that was worlds away from the perfectly opulent life he had come from, and it appealed in ways he found hard to explain.

These were the people who introduced him to his first boyfriend, who in turn introduced Tony to a  _ lot _ of other things, some of which he enjoyed and others that he did not. All of which he delighted in discovering. Somehow this all centered around a mild drinking habit which in turn lead to some more public outings than he had planned.

As might be expected, Howard was less than pleased when he found out.

Tony remembered waking up to the morning paper smacking him on the head, dazedly flailing to consciousness as his dad screamed in anger. Tony with sleep-slow hands picked up the paper, opening to the front page. “ **Stark Heir Secretly Queer?** ” read the title, and Tony felt himself physically recoil from the written vitriol that followed. There was a shot of him and Ty leaving their favorite club on Broad Street together. Tony hung off his arm, looking loose and happy. His father was still screaming.

Howard dragged him out to the front room, barely letting Tony pull on a shirt and last night’s jeans. Tony moved like he was in a dream, everything feeling hazy and slow and unreal in a way that he had never felt before. He remembered the burn of a slap and the stinging cut of a ring above his eyebrow - a cut that would leave a scar after it healed some days later. He remembered some of the words that Howard screamed in a terrifying tone that he had never heard before - words that he had only heard in movies before and naively believed that they would never apply to him. He remembered Howard finally pausing for breath, panting in the soft light of the morning. Howard slowly shuffled to his desk, reaching for the decanter of whiskey he kept there. Tony remembered time slowing down there, the stretch between his father’s hand and the glass feeling like both an eternity and no time at all. Even with the moment feeling pulled like taffy, Tony had barely a second to duck before the expensive crystal shattered on the wall behind him. The sharp tang of the alcohol filled the air, and Howard finally looked Tony in the eyes, near snarling with rage.

Needless to say, Tony set the bar for a good man fairly low.

Tony fled the house that morning and had no plans on returning. After a few weeks of couch surfing he got a call from his mother, asking him to lunch at one of the nicer restaurants in the area. 

Once she saw him Maria seemed to crumble in on herself for a moment, and with a sob she rushed to meet him, drawing Tony into a hug he hadn’t experienced since he was about knee high to her. After a long moment she drew back, stroking over his cheek with tears in her eyes. There was a bruise on her wrist. Tony did his best to ignore it.

After ordering the entree and drinks Maria turned to him and pulled a sheaf of papers out of her handbag, handing it to him over the table. “Mama,” He chuckled weakly, opening the envelope. “What is all this?”

She clasped her hands tightly as he pulled out the papers, looking fondly at him with tears in her eyes. “I know I can’t bridge the gap between you and your father,” She began, a bit of her accent bleeding through the New York Socialite she attempted to be. It made him feel small again, like he was still seven and crying from a scraped knee. “But I can make sure that you can succeed, Antonio. Even when I am not there to support you.” Tony inspected the papers in his hands. There was his birth certificate, a new graduation diploma from the most recent in a string of high schools he had been doing his level best to avoid, a passport, and a bank card with his name on it. He blinked dumbly at the items for a moment, then turned to his mother. “I’m afraid that I can’t help you too much, but here is all I could get away.”

As it turned out, all she could get away became enough money to cut all ties and  move across the Hudson to a small town near the edge of Jersey, where hopefully nobody would think to find him, and enroll himself in a community college nearby. During the day he studied Business Management, and in the evening he picked up shifts at a local bar. The two years it took to get his Associates were some of the most sleepless in his life, but for once he felt accomplished. He had built this new life with his own two hands, and he felt a sort of fierce pride that he had no idea existed before then.

A couple years after graduation Tony finally had the bright idea to open a shop of his own. After a string of several different jobs over the years he began to realize that unless he wanted to work a useless desk job (he tried that, and stayed for several months because the health insurance was fantastic, but hated it) or worked three jobs until the day he died that he was going to either have to go back to school or dip his fingers into entrepreneurship.

Seeing as he was broke either way, he went with the latter option.

This tidy little revelation coincided neatly with the end of his drunken benders, when a no-nonsense doctor named Yinsen informed him that the next time he drank could very well be his last. Under the careful support and guidance of his friends he began working on a plan. 

Tony remembered fondly the six-month period he had worked for a little cafe just off of campus. It wasn’t in the best location, it was cramped and squat and the noise from the road outside the windows was awful, but it was homey and warm and always smelled like coffee and baked goods. The owners were a very nice older couple from Mexico (Mr. and Señora Saldaña respectively) who bickered like breathing and loved each other dearly. Tony had worked for them up until their shop was bought out from under them by a larger corporation and they were forced to close up shop. 

He remembered how sad they looked, when they were packing up to leave. He attempted to help as much as he could, in between his fits of anger, but they just waved him off with a smile. He remembered being sent off for the final time with a small book of handwritten recipes (all of his favorites) from Señora Saldaña and hugs from both. They still texted him occasionally, but as far as he knew they were enjoying retirement in California, spending time with their grandchildren.

The meagre beginnings of his plan was a handful of recipes and experience in a cafe. It wasn’t fantastic, or a lot, but hey, it was a start, so he built from there. His tiny apartment became tinier when Rhodey moved in - partly to get away from his mother, who he loved dearly but was driving him nuts, and partly to help Tony with rent. Tony worked like hell, sometimes working twelve to fourteen hour days at three different jobs to save up money. After a year and a half of strict saving, nothing but the necessities and the bare minimum at that, he had just enough money to start looking for the equipment he needed to get started. 

Thus began what Rhodey somewhat-lovingly called The Collection. The Collection was a slow-growth of kitchen supplies that spilled through the apartment they shared; beginning in Tony’s room and somehow ending up places like the hall closet and living room. There were boxes of glassware and dishes, ordered from a supplier and left to gather dust while Tony struggled to save and find a place he could afford. He frequently found himself looking longingly at where the Saldaña’s shop was, missing the warmth of the company and hoping desperately that this would work.

It took another year of saving and searching and chasing down real estate agents to find a location that he could stomach and afford. It was on the other side of town (which meant a terrifying bicycle ride at 4am), but was in a respectably busy neighborhood just outside of the local university district. Tony remembered Rhodey’s sigh of relief when their small two-bedroom felt open again, the large stand-up mixer that had served as a impromptu key bowl in the living room joining the multitudes of boxes in the new shop.

Tony took a moment to just stand and breathe it all in, watching the light filter through the shop windows, the plain white of the walls shining dully. He looked around, already making a list of things he needed to make the plain space all his own. There would need to be new paint, and there was a patch of floor in the kitchens that looked nearly rotted through, and he could see several ceiling tiles that looked like they would evaporate in the slightest breeze. 

It was kind of a shithole, but it was Tony’s shithole, so he was determined to make do.

Three years later he was still in the same location, though Resilient had gone through some changes in the meantime. It had indeed gotten a new coat of paint (a cheerful shade of brick red that matched the black countertops well, or whatever Pepper had said when ordering the paint), the ceiling tiles were all new, and a few months previous Tony had even managed to close the shop for an afternoon to get new wood floors put in. He had a charming set of regulars, and plenty of walk-ins, and was doing fairly well for himself. 

The apartment above the shop went up for sale several months after he bought Resilient and with his newly reinvigorated credit score he bought that too, moving himself and Rhodey across town and above the shop.

Rhodey was out of the apartment more often than he wasn’t, working off his student loans through the Air Force. He was currently stationed in Afghanistan, doing things that Tony didn’t get to know about because “You’re a civilian, Tony, I can’t tell you this shit just because you said please,” or other such bullshit. Tony was less than pleased about this, and frankly would have rather preferred Rhodey stay stationed on base in Jersey, but as he had been told multiple times, he really had no say in the matter. Tony contented himself with his work and the bi-monthly Skype calls he got from his best friend, and that was enough.

He wasn’t lonely, he talked to plenty of people. There was Pepper, who in between working her wildly successful but (to Tony) incredibly boring corporate job stopped by to visit on the regular. There were his few employees, Harley and Peter. Peter was his first hire, a local college student who took every other weekend off to visit his aunt in Queens. Their strange relationship had began when Tony caught the mousy teen digging through his garbage late one evening, and after inviting him in for some actual food Peter admitted that between paying for college on his own and trying to help his aunt that there was little money left aside for things like food. Tony did his best to rectify this immediately, feeding the kid and letting him crash in one of the corner booths of the shop between classes. Peter, once he was up to a near-healthy weight, did his level best to pester Tony into giving him work, wanting to repay Tony for his help. In return, Tony did his level best to do nothing of the sort, as there was nothing to repay. After a couple months of continual back-and-forth about the matter Tony eventually just hired Peter, bringing the staff of the shop from one to a grand total of two.

Harley was a little different. He was a couple years older than Peter, and was originally from Tennessee. Peter had dragged him into the shop after he realized that Tony wasn’t going to bite his head off for it. Harley seemed like an ok kid, a bit sullen and angry, but Tony could remember being his age, that was just how it was sometimes. That impression changed when he got a phone call at 3:30 AM from a near frantic Harley who shouted some nonsense into the phone for a good five minutes before telling Tony he was sitting at a bus stop outside of Newark. Tony pulled on a hoodie and some flip flops and hopped in his rundown SUV, breaking just about every traffic law there was to get to Harley. He pulled up to the bus stop to see the brunet curled around a backpack, his hand fisted in his own shirt. Tony bundled him into the car, and at a much more sedate pace returned them to the shop. Through hitching sobs Harley told him what had happened. He was visiting his mother and sister, doing his level best to avoid the latest in apparently what was a long line of shitty boyfriends. Apparently that tactic didn’t work on a drunk (a fact of which Tony was intimately aware), and Harley wound up with a black eye and some very colorful threats as to what would happen if he ever set foot in his mother’s house again.

Tony was near thunderous with rage, but Harley made him promise not to do anything drastic, so he kept his seat. Tony eventually made up the couch and put Harley to bed, telling him to actually sleep instead of sneaking off and venting his anger in less than healthy fashions. The next morning saw Harley hanging around the shop, looking lost and angry and sad. Peter eventually approached Tony, wringing his hands in the way he did when he felt bad about something. Tony looked up from doing the books, smiling wryly at him. Apparently Peter had seen Harley moping and set him to work moving the boxes in the back and taking a rough inventory as he went. 

“I figured it would take his mind off of everything that was going on,” Peter explained after Tony laughed himself silly, “We don’t really need it done, but he needed to do something other than sit there, it was killing me to watch.”

After a week of Harley showing up around noon each day for another inane task Tony finally sat him down and had the same talk he had with Peter. Within the span of about an hour Resilient’s staff numbered three, and Tony’s new family just kept growing.

As far as regulars went he had a good handful of people that he saw at least bi-weekly. There was Wanda, who was an Ag-Science major at the state university. She took all her classes online and worked at a local gardening outlet. She lived, and occasionally came in with, her twin brother Pietro, who as far as Tony knew worked as a bartender at two different bars and slept most days. Tony had never seen a pair of siblings so different, but their dynamic seemed to work for their situation. Clint showed up not long after the shop opened, and was a real nice guy, if a bit of a human disaster. He always had a story to tell about some strange happening or near-miss every time he came in, and tipped generously for a man that Tony was half-sure didn’t have a real job. Natasha originally came with Clint, but after a while she started showing up of her own accord. Tony didn’t really know anything concrete about Tasha. He knew she immigrated from Russia (Or maybe Ukraine, Clint and Natasha liked to tell new and  conflicting stories whenever he asked), and that she had a degree in corporate law from  _ somewhere.  _ He supposed the specifics didn’t really matter, she took care of her own, which somewhere along the line that began to mean Tony. 

After Natasha there was Sam, who she and Clint dragged arm-in-arm into the shop on a shitty, rainy November afternoon. Sam reminded Tony of Rhodey in the way that all military men did, and the former airman was one of the most pleasant people Tony had ever come across in his life. He was genuinely kind, and despite the grief that sometimes laid on his shoulders like a physical weight, he did his best to project calm. 

It sufficed to say that even with his oldest friend (and if you asked Rhodey, his keeper) far away there were still people with Tony’s best interests in mind, which was certainly for the best, all considering.

Now that the shop wasn’t in constant threat of bankruptcy, could even be considered a gainful investment, Tony had the spare time to realize that there might be something very wrong with him.

Back when he was incredibly stressed he could get away with losing weight easily. When money is tight and you have things to do you don’t always manage three squares a day, that was ok. But he was now gainfully employed and could afford to take the time to eat, but more often than not he found himself unable to stomach full meals. He felt queasy and sick at odd times of day, so sometimes he just gave up trying for that meal and just resolved himself to eat extra at the next one. What he originally thought was dread for long days of classes and work with little rest became real anxiety at the thought of facing every day, and a funny little fluttering in his chest made him sweat with anxiety. He was sweaty all the fucking time now, and it was getting ridiculous. He went through two shirts minimum a day, three if something actually went wrong. Falling asleep was near-impossible, and staying asleep was just as hard. Every few weeks he would have blocks of days where all he wanted to do was sleep, and would wind up sleeping most of the day away on the off chance he could get away with it.

His hands shook all the time now, sometimes from fatigue and others just because they could. 

Headaches happened frequently, and he was constantly chilled. His motivation to do anything other than the bare minimum of activities was nonexistent. He mustered the energy to run the shop - he made small talk and baked goods with his usual ease - but once he flipped the sign to close and returned upstairs he felt impossibly drained. His body had seemingly turned against him when he wasn’t looking, and it was making living his life increasingly difficult as time went on.

All this aside, Tony was doing his best to make do, and things were looking well for Resilient. And if, occasionally, he had to ask Peter and Harley to take care of the shop for a day when he couldn’t make himself leave the apartment, well the boys got to pick up extra hours and the pay that came with them. They -for the most part- kept their questions and concerns to themselves, and life went on.

Tony was heavily considering taking one of those days when he shuffled out of bed at 5:00 to get the shop ready for opening.

It was sad because he usually really enjoyed this part of his job. The quiet, sleepy, early hours of the morning is what he used to prepare for the coming day. It began with collecting the various doughs from the industrial refrigerator that he left to proof overnight. Usually there was one or two types of bread, a type of scone, maybe some croissants. He based his menus off of what was fresh at one of the groceries down the street, so there was always something new to try. The day previous he had gotten his hands on some fresh blueberries, so there were blueberry scones. As per Natasha’s request he brought back his Pumpkin Spice muffins, which she had been demanding he make since the November previous.

After rolling out the doughs and popping them in the oven to bake he moved on to other tasks. Soup was usually cooked the night before, so he tossed whatever he had on hand into their heated containers. That day it was a hearty Chicken Noodle Soup, and a simple Tomato Basil soup. Once the soup was taken care of he checked the front displays, making sure that the basket of fresh fruit was topped up and the grab-and-go sandwiches and drinks were up to date. 

Before he left to the grocery he flipped on what he had taken to calling That Stupid Fucking Machine, which was really just the espresso machine. Logically he knew that it was just an object, and couldn’t have any feelings towards him, but realistically it loved to go absolutely nuts during the mid-morning rush, but only when  _ he _ was the one running it. Peter never had any issues, and Harley seemed to work it fine. 

Tony was absolutely not bitter about his own coffee machine forsaking him, he wasn’t.

All too suddenly an hour had passed, so Tony quickly pulled on a jacket and jogged out the door, walking quickly to the grocery. He chatted lightly with the grocer, a kind older woman with a warm smile, while he collected what he needed and paid. 

The rest of the morning passed quickly, and when he opened shop at 7:00 he felt almost settled, less like he was going to crawl out of his skin at the lightest touch. 

A few of the early risers filtered through the shop. Mrs. Cardenas shuffled in for her coffee, her wrinkled face raising in a delighted grin as Tony handed her a pastry bag with a fresh scone inside. She pinched his cheek warmly, then moved to sit in one of the window seats, settling in with that day’s paper.

After that there was a stream of nameless, faceless people -non-regulars who were just looking for something warm to drink. Tony served them on autopilot, doing his best to hide the tremor in his hands when one woman checked her watch impatiently. After a while the line petered out a bit, and Harley showed up, so Tony took a moment to step in the back to check on their pastry supply, valiantly pretending that it wasn’t a desperate grab for a moment to collect himself. 

When he returned to the front, apron in place and new gloves on his hands, Harley bumped their shoulders together as he passed, grinning as he moved to the pastry case. Tony smiled right back, ignoring the prick of tears in his eyes as he moved to greet the next customer

* * *

 

“Really, a cafe?”

At the retort Sam looked back at Bucky, frowning slightly. “Yeah,” He began, opening the door. The bell at the top let out a pleasant little chime and someone from inside called out a warm greeting. Bucky rolled his eyes, resigning himself to be lead further in. He had never really been much of a cafe fan before he was enlisted, and after returning home he  _ really _ wasn’t a fan of them. They were never loud, per se, but there was a constant stream of noise and smells and movement and after a while his brain got so frustrated with not being able to focus on just one thing that he would zone  _ way _ out and forget where and who he was.

The shrink at the VA called that disassociation, and said that it was part of the hypervigilance that came with PTSD, but Bucky just took that as therapist-talk for “going fucking nuts.” 

The therapist also said to stop talking down about himself like that, but, if the shoe fits, and all that.

“-idn’t think that a cafe would be too big of a step for you, Barnes, but if it’s too much I can take you back to your apartment.” Bucky blinked his eyes open, surprised to find that he had shut them. He slowly gained awareness, then everything slammed into him at once. 

Sam had moved them out of the doorway and into a relatively secluded corner. His hands were on Bucky’s shoulders. The shop smelled strongly of coffee and blueberries. It was pleasant. Bucky struggled to keep this in mind as he heavily considered bolting from the cafe, Sam’s regard be damned. He felt humiliated, what person freaked out at a coffee shop? What person couldn’t fucking handle a little coffee?

Sam said nothing after that, just held Bucky by the shoulders as he gasped for breath, letting the moment move past until Bucky shrugged his hands off, resolutely trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks. Sam straightened, then grinned, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners in a way that reminded Bucky of his sister. “Ok?” He asked, looking Bucky in the eyes. Bucky did his best to meet them evenly.

“Peachy.” He gruffed out, squaring his shoulders and tugging his jacket more securely around himself. He sidestepped Sam -to a huff of laughter from the man himself- and stepped up to the small line that had formed while he had taken a moment. He looked up at the menu, feeling his companion settle in next to him.

After a while of squinting at the options Sam nudged him, gesturing to the line, or rather, where the line used to be. The barista looked bemused, bright white nametag on his apron naming him Tony. 

“Hey Sam,” Tony began, tapping his hands on the countertop in a nervous rhythm. “Who’s your friend?”

Bucky tensed minutely as Sam threw an arm over his shoulder, and there was an awkward pause as they all seemed to wait for his reaction. When none was forthcoming Sam grinned, turning back to Tony. “This is Bucky, he’s that friend of a friend that I was talking about.”

“Oh-” Tony began, turning to the complicated setup of machines that took up a counter on the back wall. As he went he gestured to the bar seating just past the register. “Steve’s guy, right?”

“Look,” Bucky interjected, moving towards the seats Tony had pointed out. He rushed to speak before Sam could spout the smart comment he could just see brewing, “I ain’t Steve’s anything, just a friend.” 

Sam sniggered, Bucky struggled to remember a sermon on patience he heard when he last went to church. The last time he went to church his Dad had been alive. That put it anywhere from a decade to nearly thirty years in the past. Or, wait, it could have been one of the times that Steve had dragged him to midnight mass before Christmas. That had only happened a few times, when they both had leave at the same time and Steve managed to either wear down his patience or guilt him into going. All he remembered was that patience was a virtue, or some other such bullshit. He was doing his best to keep this in mind.

He was learning that he wasn’t a very virtuous person.

Tony was sporting a wan smile as he returned, a cup and saucer in his hands. He placed what appeared to be a latte in front of the man, the warm steam smelling faintly of vanilla and hazelnut. He looked expectantly at Bucky, the corners of his lips twitching up slightly. “And what can I get for you?” He inquired, leaning into the counter.

Bucky felt himself smiling slightly, almost against his will. “Any chance I could jus’ get plain black coffee?” He hedged, scanning the rest of the shop in an excuse to avoid eye contact. Tony moved away with an affirmative hum, and Bucky watched as he snagged a mug and shuffled to a machine, picking up a pot there and pouring. Bucky shifted his gaze, looking a little closer at the shop. It had a pleasant, homey, feel to it. The music wasn’t too loud, and the coffee-scent wasn’t as bad as he had assumed it would be. The walls were a soft red and the floors were a rich brown. A couple sat in the corner booth near the window, and an ancient woman sat behind them, working intently with a pen on that morning’s newspaper. Other than a gangly young man who was wiping down tables on the other side of the shop, there was nobody else.

He jumped when the mug was set down in front of him, turning to Tony with tense shoulders. If the brunet noticed his startle he elected to ignore it, turning instead to Sam.

“Where’s Tasha?” He asked, leaning against the countertop again. Bucky half tuned them out, choosing instead to focus on the mug between his hands. The ceramic was a standard white, but there was a chip in the handle. He found himself running his thumb over it for several minutes, his thoughts fading away into a pleasant hum in the back of his mind. He was still tense, he could feel the beginning of the strain in his muscles, but for a while his mind was quiet. The coffee smelled strong, and vaguely of hazelnuts. It was pleasant.

“Do you know Natasha, Bucky?” Tony asked, snapping Bucky back to the conversation at hand. Bucky looked up, seeing Sam and Tony looking at him expectantly. 

“Yeah, I know her.” He stated, scratching at the back of his neck. “Stevie introduced us a few years ago.” He didn’t elaborate, and Tony seemed to wilt slightly, turning to Sam with raised eyebrows. Sam sighed, then carried on chatting with Tony, his fingers drumming lightly against the ceramic of his cup.

* * *

 

Tony was not unused to meeting new people. He ran a cafe, it was almost a part of the job description. However, it was a rare occasion when he met someone so entirely fucking terrifying.

Yeah, he was admitting it, James “It’s Bucky” Barnes was a strong contender for the most spooky person he had ever met in his life.

It’s not like he had really even done anything, Barnes had walked into his shop, asked for a coffee, and proceeded to brood in silence for the hour and a half that he and Sam graced him with their presence. Tony had been expecting someone a little more worn-down; the way the others described him made him out to be some sort of hermit who hadn’t seen the light of day since he stepped off the plane home. While Barnes had a certain unkempt look to him, he certainly wasn’t the waif of a man Tony had expected to see. 

All Tony remembered of his first impression was ‘Hey, Sam is here,’ followed almost immediately by ‘and who the fuck is the brick wall walking right next to him?’ Next thing Tony knew was that they were both sitting at his bar and Sergeant Scowl was drilling holes into his nice countertops for a solid hour straight. He was actually pretty easy on the eyes, if you were able to ignore the sourpuss he never seemed to drop.

Tony did his best to ignore the feeling like he should be apologizing for something, beginning to feel overwhelmed as all efforts to draw Barnes into conversation were deflected bluntly. Sam winced in apology, shrugging with an expression on his face that seemed to say  _ what can you do? _ Tony did his best to smile in reply, feeling his heart beat oddly and a nervous sweat break out under the collar of his shirt. 

That was weeks ago, since the first time he had shown up in the shop Barnes had returned three times, and each was as painfully stiff as the last. Bucky wasn’t like any regular Tony had ever had. He seemed almost allergic to routine, changing his order and seating every time he visited. He never visited at consistent times or days, he just showed up when he pleased, or, when Sam seemed to be able to drag him in. The last few times the duo had come in for brunch Natasha was with them, cajoling Bucky into the first actual conversation he had at the shop.

All of that is what made this day so damn odd.

Barnes showed up at the shop around 10 that morning. He was alone, and he sat at the bar again, scanning the few stragglers left in the shop with a forced calm. Tony edged closer, flexing his hands nervously as he reached to hold the counter. “Anything I can get you today, Bucky?” He asked, feeling proud that for a moment that his voice didn’t crack. Bucky looked up sharply, his long hair swinging into his face. He looked at Tony for a long moment, something fragile and wild reflecting in the blue of his eyes. After a moment he looked down at the menu, then off to the side.

“Orange juice and a blueberry muffin,” He began, hunching his shoulders forward slightly, “Please.”

“Coming right up!” Tony replied weakly, turning on clumsy legs to the fridge, grabbing a glass along the way. He moved mechanically, doing his best to focus on the task at hand rather than all the myriad thoughts bouncing around his head. Why was Bucky here? Did he want something? What could he possibly want? Does he need money? Sam said he wasn’t do-

“Hey, thanks.” Bucky replied, picking up the glass that was placed in front of him. He took a quiet sip, then set it down. Tony hovered, left flat-footed as to how to proceed. Bucky looked up and Tony jolted out of his thoughts, hurriedly picking up a rag and wiping down the espresso machine. 

It was quiet for a while, though Tony felt Bucky’s eyes on him the whole time. He felt his face heat, and his hands begin to sweat. Now he was worried, what if Bucky was judging him? Maybe he was, maybe he was going to go to Natasha and Sam and Steve, and tell them how terrible Tony was, and then they would all laugh. Then he wouldn’t have any friends, not even Rhodey and Pepper would stick around, and then he woul-

“Tony.” Bucky grunted. Tony whipped around to face him, making a desperate grab for the towel in his hand before it dropped. Tony felt wound up tight, like every nerve ending in his body was hyper aware of everything that was going on everywhere. Tony felt the edges of the room closing in, his heart began to beat harder. “Tony?” Bucky questioned, shifting his weight as if he was going to stand.

Tony stepped forward, tossing the towel on the counter and bracing himself against it. “Yeah?” He asked, forcing his lungs to take in air breath by breath.

“Thanks for, uh,” Bucky stumbled over his words, nervously thumbing his glass of juice. “You’re a real stand-up guy.” He stated firmly, nodding to himself as if to confirm.

Tony blinked hard, thrown from his spiralling thoughts by the words. Was that a complement? Was it a joke? Was it a dare? Bucky had never taken interest in conversation with Tony before, why would he start now? Tony’s mind raced with possibilities, each making him more nervous than the last. 

He finally settled on an anxious grin, his eyes flicking around the room as he replied. “Uh, yeah, no problem,” he stuttered out in a brittle voice, “Not that I really know what I did, but I’m glad it, um,” His voice petered out, sounding meek and small.

Tony saw Bucky frown and felt himself flail for a new topic, desperately grasping for a handle on the situation. Bucky cleared his throat, sitting forward in his chair and meeting Tony’s eyes. “You’ve got a real nice community goin’ here, I know of a good few people who ‘ppreciate it. A lot.”

Tony felt his face heat, and he resisted the urge to refuse. He snatched the towel back into his hands, turning to collect a few menus to greet the family that had just stepped in. He looked back just in time to see a fleeting smile on Bucky's face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has been very busy, Bucky visits his therapist, and Tony continues to run his shop, despite breaking into frequent nervous sweats.

          Bucky wished he could say that he liked his therapist. She was a lovely woman, he was sure. She had a pleasant face and a soothing voice. He was originally put off by her; the long skirts and decidedly boho patterns she wore made the voice in the back of his head that sounded vaguely like James Barnes Sr. pipe up with a stream of rude commentary. He knew he didn't make her job easy. He skipped appointments more often than he made them, and when he did show up he struggled to talk about the things that she wanted to touch on. They had resorted to the easier of the hard topics: his “avoidant behaviors.” Bucky assumed that was shrink-speak for antisocial.

          “So you talked to him this week?” She inquired, leaning back in her desk chair, peering at him over her glasses. Bucky was sat up straight on the couch in front of her, crammed into the corner that was furthest from the door and faced the window. The first time he came in for an appointment she told him to make himself comfortable, gesturing to a set of pillows and a blanket thrown over the back. He had wrinkled his nose and retreated as far into the room as he could, keeping his eyes on both of the exits and her, sitting ramrod straight and stiff as a board.

          “Yeah.” He grunted, feeling his legs tense with the urge to shift in place. He was frequently given these “assignments,” which always without fail made him both wildly uncomfortable and incredibly nervous.

          Nine times out of ten he outright refused to even consider doing the things that she suggested. He was doing his best to convince himself that he didn’t know why this time was different.

          She raised a thin eyebrow, looking thoroughly unimpressed at his non-response. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

          Bucky sighed, running a hand through hair that was a day or so past needing a wash. “If I say no will you drop it?” He inquired, feeling stupid for even asking. He watched her regard him for a moment, feeling the exhaustion seep into his bones the longer he sat there.

          “For now,” She began, waving her hand between them. “But you’re never going to get anything out of this if you don’t cooperate at least a little.” Bucky hung his head, feeling his frustration gather somewhere in his throat. He got it, he really did, but sometimes he dearly wished that the antidepressants they wanted to put him on were the kind of magic pills that people joked they were. It was a silly, childish wish, but he was so, so goddamn tired of working over the same issues again and again.

          “I know.” He finally replied, rolling his jaw while he worked on a reply. “It was nice.” She blinked at him, obviously waiting for more. Bucky resisted the urge to groan. “It was awkward, ok?” He gritted out, flexing his hands on his knees. “I tried to thank him like you said and I don’t think I made sense at all.” You see, Bucky's original intent was to thank Tony for dealing with him hanging around the shop on the occasions he came in. He had caught the nervous looks Tony kept shooting him whenever he was around, and if he was being honest with himself he could understand why having a big, buff, silent fella hanging around would make someone a bit nervous.

          His therapist frowned at him, bringing her hand up to adjust her glasses. When no further comment was forthcoming she sighed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “The point of this exercise was to help you acclimate to civilian life; make some friends and do some normal people things. It wasn’t meant for you to stress yourself out with-” She held up her hand when Bucky opened his mouth, halting his speech. “It was going to stress you out, I know that. That’s the point of pushing your boundaries. But have you considered that you don’t have only one shot at this?”

          He blinked at her in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing. “Huh?”

          “He owns the shop, he’s going to be there tomorrow, and likely the next day after that. You never mentioned that he seemed irritated or angry, and it sounds to me like you’re welcome to go back. Getting to know someone takes much more than a day, James”

          Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I know, I know,” He began, resisting the urge to wince at how plaintive the words sounded. “I just feel like…” He trailed off, unsure how to say _like I’m running out of time_ without sounding like an absolute nut. He instead settled into stony silence, listening to the clock tick as several seconds went by in silence. She was terrible like that, his therapist. She was content to let him sit in uncomfortable silence until he blurted out something, anything to fill the air with noise. It was real hard to be mad about it, when he was the one who kept showing up for sessions.

          After a few moments ticked past she sighed, leaning to the side table to collect her clipboard. It was apparently the end of the session. He flicked his eyes to the clock on the desk, noting that yes, indeed an hour had gone by. He manfully resisted the urge to stand up and cheer.

          “I would like you back in here next week,” She began, frowning slightly over the clipboard at him. “Though based on past experience I guess I’ll see you at the end of the month.” Bucky wanted to feel bad about it, and on some level he did, but showing up to talk to a shrink was one of the worst things he dragged himself out of the apartment to do. “You should try talking to Tony again. You might surprise yourself with how well it goes, so long as you commit to it.”

          Bucky felt a surge of skepticism rise without his permission, and judging by the look on the therapist’s face she noticed it too. She shook her head as she passed him the board to sign his name, looking him steadily in the eye as she did. Bucky elected to believe that he wasn't looking away, just choosing instead to focus unnecessarily hard on the pen in his hand.

          “If you want to go for a real challenge, try going to the shop more than once this week.” She said as he handed back the clipboard. Bucky felt himself panic slightly at this, feeling thrown by the suggestion. “It’s not a requirement, but give it some thought.” When he glowered at her she gazed back serenely, budging not an inch. “You came to me saying that you wanted to pull yourself out of this rut, James. Your recovery has to start somewhere.”

          He simply nodded in reply, muttering a quiet thank you before swiftly exiting the building. He hated going to session, but he hated even more what he felt like afterwards. He felt tired and scraped raw, not even considering his feelings on his assignment for the next week. He couldn’t even bear to entertain the possibility of returning the following Saturday.

          As he waited for the bus he shivered in the cold, drawing his jacket around himself.

* * *

          Tony had no idea how he became so close to Natasha.

          He remembered being terrified of her when she first came into the shop. It wasn’t that she was dressed all that intimidatingly, or that she gave any signs of being a mobster, or anything. She just exuded a vibe that generally got strangers to avoid her at all costs. That is, unless she wanted them near. Once she turned on the charm nobody could stand a chance; her hard accent would become endearing and the tense way she held herself would soften artificially, Tony had seen it enough times in action he could write entire books about how well Natasha could change herself to fit her goals.

          That said, the real Natasha was a different person entirely.

          She meddled, that was for certain. Tony figured that she did it out of love, seeing as he couldn’t imagine her doing it for her own gain. She loved few, but she loved fiercely, constantly protecting and caring for those she called her own. Sam had compared her once to a mother bear (to his own detriment and Natasha’s displeasure), and Tony had to agree with him. He vividly remembered a terrifying evening where an irate drunk wasn’t letting him close down in peace, so Natasha took him outside to “discuss his behavior.”

          Yeah, she was a spooky lady.

          But it was hard to be completely frightened of a woman that Tony knew for certain exclusively wore only socks with fun patterns on them, and refused to watch those dog movies because they made her cry.

          That aside, this would properly amount to the reason that Tony was sweating buckets as he mopped the floors. He could feel Natasha’s eyes on his back, watching, analysing, judging. She was about as subtle as a freight barge, which was to say, not very. Tony felt his t-shirt become a little more humid.

          “Antonishka,” She began, drawing his attention. “I do not understand why you are so silent today. Usually you are talking a lot, but today only a little. Have I done something wrong?”

          Tony manfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Natasha rarely asked these things directly. She always lead into it, sometimes used his squishy emotions to get him to spill on what was bothering him. That wasn’t to say that she never was direct, she was probably the most direct person he had ever met. She was just intelligent enough to know that Tony had a hair trigger on matters of the heart, and asking him directly would be a sure fire way to get his back up.

          Just because he could adknowledge the genius of it didn’t mean that he had to like it.

          “No, ‘Tasha, you haven’t done anything.” He said, frowning at her in mock vexation. “Though I think you might have already known that.”

          Natasha didn’t look upset at being caught out in he ploy, in fact she looked almost proud, gazing warmly at Tony over the rim of her chocolate mocha peppermint monstrosity. “Perhaps I was being a little bit sneaky. But if we are being fair, you are also not telling me what is wrong.” She took a sip of her drink, humming with contentment as she set it down. “There is nothing I can do if I do not know what the problem is.”

          Tony sighed, feeling the fight leaking out of his chest. On one hand, he wanted to confide in Natasha. On the other, he wanted to keep these emotions close to his chest until they disappeared. On a completely different, possibly-astral third hand, Tony was genuinely shocked that she gave up the act so quickly. However, if he kept his squishy human feelings to himself, nobody would have to know, and everything would stay the same. At this point, it appeared that Natasha had made his choice for him.

          “It’s nothing, really,” He insisted at her glare, crossing his arms defensively. “I just had a weird conversation with Barnes last week, and I guess it made me a little nervous.”

          At this Natasha’s expression went eerily blank, her whole being stilling. “What is it that he said.” She stated, absolutely demanding an answer.

          Tony spread his hands in a placating gesture, grinning apologetically down at her. “It wasn’t anything that deserves all that. He just thanked me, for some reason.” He scratched his chin, making a mental note to shave the next morning. “Said that I had a ‘real nice community’ and called me a ‘real stand-up guy.’” And really, who talked like that these days? Tony just could not figure out what his deal was.

          Natasha looked puzzled, then stonily amused, a look that promised a long talk in someone’s future. Tony shuddered, glad it wasn’t him. “I am thinking that maybe he was trying to be nice.” She said, with an expression that screamed ‘he’d better have.’ “Though if he is making you feel unsafe I have no problems telling him not to come back.

          Tony hurriedly waved his arms in a firm and vehement refusal. “No! Nope! That’s quite alright, thank you Natasha, but it’s really ok.” He saw her smirk a little and wilted, stepping up to thunk his head on the countertop. “You were never going to ask him to leave, were you?”

          She took a smug little drink from her mug, looking dignified despite the foam mustache that was left on her upper lip. “If he was doing something that was intended to hurt you, of course.” She rolled her eyes, as if that should have been obvious. Maybe it should have been. “He is in a really bad place, he is hurting and needs friends to help him heal.” She sagely said, folding her hands together on the counter. “He does not have many of those, these days.”

          Tony sighed, picking his head up. “Yeah, I noticed. He’s disabled, right? Something about shrapnel in his left arm? Sam said,” He added on at her questioning look, doing his best to look as if he hadn’t gone fishing for information. He felt his neck heat and hoped it didn't show.

          She looked at him the way that he looked at a particularly dumb dog. Like he was cute but completely clueless. “I am not talking about his arm, Tony,” she began, narrowing her eyes at him. “I am talking about his mind. He went out to this war and he came back different. Afraid.” She looked almost sorrowful, though Tony hadn't thought she knew Bucky well enough to feel that much for him. “I know that Steve has been very afraid for him. He does not sleep, because of this worry.”

          Tony shot her a puzzled look, faintly sure that she maybe likely wasn’t guilt tripping him with this information. “And this has to do with him being in my shop how?” He questioned, flinching slightly when she frowned at him.

          “He is confused. He does not know how to exist now that he has no gun in his hand. He stays at home, never leaving and never seeing anyone.” She wrinkled her nose, her brows scrunching together. “He does not bathe, and wears the same clothes day after day. He is not living, not anymore.” Natasha picked at her muffin, cup drained and shoved slightly forward.

          “So you think him being here is gonna, what? Help resocialize him? He’s not a feral cat.” He stated skeptically, grabbing her mug to throw in with the other dirty dishes. He got another mug and set it to the side of the coffee pots; if he knew Natasha at all she’d be asking for another in about 10 minutes, if she didn’t leave by then.

          Natasha frowned at him, conjuring a pout for a few seconds to try and make him feel bad. “I know this. He is human, though. He needs to see people, normal people. This is what Sam says and I agree. He will never recover if there is nobody to help him.”

          “Ok ‘Tasha, I believe you.” He reassured, watching her jaw work. “He can still come around, it’s still cool. It never wasn’t cool, it’s alright.” He felt a little lost, a bit unsure how the conversation had arrived where it was. He felt his heart begin to race when he saw Natasha relax visibly, beginning to feel really concerned. And lost. Did he mention that he had no idea what was going on?

          Natasha was rarely ever got this worked up about things - at least outwardly. He had seen her take whatever news of Barton’s latest mishap with the grace and poise that befitted queens, he had seen her haul off and punch men twice her size with less emotion in her eyes than a grocery cashier on their fifth hour on the graveyard shift. So, Tony was understandably shaken when his usually unflappable friend appeared worried.

          She took a moment to breathe and Tony politely looked away, strolling out from behind the bar to collect the glasses of some patrons who had left since he last checked. He carried them over to the dishrack, leaving them to sit in company with Natasha’s mug. When he turned back around Natasha appeared much more collected, tapping two fingers against the bar in a familiar gesture.

          Tony rolled his eyes, grabbing the mug he had set aside. “You know I’m not a bartender anymore, right?” He jabbed playfully, tamping down a fresh puck of grounds and flipping on the machine. It gave a pitiful shudder, then began to slowly trickle into the cup.

          “Maybe not now, but you are still pouring me a drink.” She sounded pleased with herself, though whether it was about the coffee or something else it was likely he would never know. Tony slanted her a glance as he mixed her drink, seeing her smiling smugly as she picked at the crumbs of her muffin. He shook his head as he straightened, carefully sliding the cup across the bar. She uttered a thanks as she picked up the mug, not bothering to check the temperature as she took a gulp. He winced, shaking his head as she licked the foam from her upper lip, grinning at him cattily. He smiled back, helplessly charmed as he returned to cleaning the counter once again.

          Now calm, he grimaced, feeling sweat cooling down his back. Maybe he could convince Natasha to watch the front, just long enough for him to get another shirt. He considered this as he watched her out of the corner of his eye, watching her devour her drink with relish. He sighed, turning to the back to check on their sandwich situation. Yeah, probably not a good idea.

* * *

          “You are scaring him.” Natasha called through the door, strolling in casually, as if she lived there. Which was absolutely not true, and Bucky didn’t remember ever giving her a key, which meant that she had discovered where he was hiding his spare, _again_.

          She rounded the couch, looming disapprovingly over him in heels that were, jeez, at least three and a half inches long. She was dressed like she had just come from the office, and a quick glance at his phone informed him that it was likely she had, considering it was late Tuesday afternoon. He had thought it was Monday, though at this point he really had more pressing concerns; like the fact that he was in boxers and a ratty old wife beater, and Natasha was _right there_.

          “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nat.” He mumbled into the couch cushion, pulling the blanket over his shoulders in a feeble attempt to hide. Natasha let out an irritated huff, ripping the blanket off and draping it over her arm. Bucky felt all the hairs on his arms raise at once, the chilly air sending shivers up his spine. He reluctantly turned back around, swinging his legs off the cushion. She frowned down at him, unimpressed, likely with both his actions and apparent lack of spooky mind reading powers.

          “Tony. You have scared Tony and if you are not careful he will begin to think that you dislike him.” Bucky frowned up at her, trying to quash the mild panic that was beginning to rise in his chest. He was still confused, but scaring off Tony was the last thing he wanted. What if that was it, had he really squandered his only chance? His shrink said he could go back and try again, but what did she know about Tony, really? Maybe he-

          Natasha snapped her fingers right in front of his face, jerking him out of his quickly derailing train of thought. Bucky refocused, frowning at her in concentration as she set her hands on his shoulders, giving him a little shake.

          “Cut it out!” He barked, feeling a headache coming on. “Nat-”

          “No!” Nat cut in, glaring at him in the following silence until he shut his mouth. When it was apparent he wasn’t going to speak, she nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Here is what you will do. You will go to the shop, and you will talk to him.” Bucky opened his mouth, but quickly shut it when Natasha shot him a look. “You will not try to speak of these deep topics. You will be nice, and if you are brave you will maybe flirt a little.”

          Bucky paused, shooting her an incredulous look. “Flirt? Really Nat?” He made a broad gesture at himself, wincing again at the state of his shirt. “I barely look human, and aside from that, who says that I want to flirt with Tony anyhow?” He reproached, steeling his resolve as she continued to glower. She sat down on the coffee table in front of him, brushing invisible lint off of her nice dress pants. He resisted the urge to flinch, not even wanting to consider the grime that she was probably sitting on.

          “If Tony is the man I know him to be, he will not care about this.” She stated severely, mocking the flippant gesture he had just done. “You don’t need to hide your affections from me, I know, and I am here to help.”

          Bucky took a moment to rub at the bridge of his nose, feeling the sweet beginnings of a headache. “Nat, really, I don’t have any-” He broke off when he noticed the knowing glint in Natasha’s eyes. He huffed, resisting the urge to cross his arms and sulk like a teenager. “Seriously, Natasha.”

          “Fine, fine, I will not push,” She held her hands up in surrender, “But you need to talk to him anyhow, I will not have my friends at odds because they refuse to talk like adults. You will waste everyone’s time, doing that.”

          Bucky squinted at her, feeling all at once like the matter had been dropped a bit too willingly. Not willing to push his luck, he ignored it, choosing instead to consider the possibility of visiting Resilient again. “I can try, Nat.” He began, digging his nails into his legs. “But I can’t promise anything good. I don’t make friends easily, not anymore.”

          Bucky did his best to suppress his nausea, remembering the days where he was never without a friend. When he was younger he was nothing if not charismatic, charming the pants off everyone he came across. Back when Steve was tiny (and asthmatic, and always sick, and _tiny_ ) he always had a group of hangers-on. By the time he reached high school they had become a pack of drinking buddies, which lasted up until graduation and Bucky's subsequent enlistment. Imagine his surprise, that when he returned from overseas a few years later crippled and depressed, that none of them would stick around. By the poorly concealed pity on her face, he didn’t do a good job of hiding it.

          “You have me, and you have Sam.” Natasha said, her voice gentling into a tone that Bucky had never heard before. “You have always had Steve, and if you try a little harder you will have Tony as well.” She finished off, her voice hardening into something more like the Natasha Bucky knew.

          Bucky sighed, then let out a reluctant chuckle. He shook his head, then took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head. “Alright, alright, I’ll go back in.” Natasha looked so damned happy, you’d almost have thought it was her idea. “Tomorrow.”

          She tilted her head, conceding the point after a moment of thought. “Tomorrow then.” Her words held an unspoken _or else_ to them, and if he was a lesser man maybe he would even be a bit scared by her.

          Who was he kidding, he was pretty scared of her now.

          While he was contemplating this Natasha stood, her heels clicking on the cheap tile all the way into the kitchen, where he could hear the fridge opening. A few moments later and she was flopping onto the couch next to him, passing over a beer and stealing the remote.

          Bucky raised an eyebrow when her perfectly manicured foot (painted with a subtle pattern of tiny cacti with smiling faces) landed in his lap, glancing back and forth from Nat to her foot. She looked placidly back, switching the channel without looking. They remained like that for a while, before Bucky finally gave up, resting his hands on her tiny foot as they settled in for what looked like a show about wedding dresses. This choice was Barton’s influence, he could tell.

          Bucky realized as he took a sip of his shitty beer that he was ok with that. Crap beer, a demanding friend, and some shitty TV was something that he could manage, if only for a little while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://nativemossy.tumblr.com/), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/nativemossy), or [dreamwidth](https://nativemossy.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> For some fun facts, Bucky's therapist was based off of my own therapist (of whom I saw for 3+ years), and Tony's experience with anxiety sweats is modeled nearly entirely after my own. Gross but true, when I was at my worst I was having a good day if I only went through two shirts a day.
> 
> I also feel like I should mention that I've never worked in a coffee shop. This is all modeled after watching my favorite baristas at a shop on campus, and articles online about what working there is like.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes' terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for pretty much the entirety of Bucky's POV. There's some flashbacks, panic attacks, and disassociation going on here. Bucky's a pretty unreliable narrator, and he kinda skips a few steps of logic and goes right into panic and assumptions. If you want to skip it, Tony's POV sandwiches Bucky's, so just read up to the lines.

         Tony was having a terrible day.

         It started with the first batch of muffins, which he burnt a little more than was salvageable. He very nearly spilled a whole pot of soup onto the floor, but in saving it he managed to knock over one of the glass syrup bottles he kept on the counter. That shattered, and he spent a good 10 minutes trying to stave off a headache while picking up glass shards. His trip to the grocery went off without a hitch, but he managed to fuck up the first customer’s order not just once, but twice. After she left - with free latte and complimentary bagel in hand - he sank his head into his hands, feeling his legs shake as the anxiety bled through him. He predicted it was going to be a long day.

         Later, after a minor fight with the espresso machine and a lovely conversation with Riri, who was finishing off her last few high school credit requirements with classes from a nearby university, Tony felt a bit better. It was around 12:30, so Harley was due in at any moment, so long as his car decided to cooperate that afternoon.

          “Hey, old man!” Harley greeted, speak of the devil, tying his apron behind him as the kitchen door shut after him. “Why does it smell like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s asshole in there?”

          Tony stifled a chuckle, slapping Harley affectionately on the shoulder with a menu. “I busted one of the spare syrup bottles, so the kitchen is gonna smell a bit strong for a few days.” Harley chuffed out a laugh, stepping up to the counter to take an order. “And watch your language, kid! This is a cafe, not the Waffle House.”

          Tony couldn’t see the resulting eye roll, but he was more than sure that it had happened. He ignored the sass and ducked into the kitchen for a much needed breather, checking in the refrigerator and pulling a tray of scones off the cooling rack. After a while he returned to the counter, plastering on his customer service smile and grinning at something Riri said to Harley.

          “Here’s your order Ma’am, that’ll be-”

          “I ordered that latte iced.”

          Tony was sure that his well-practiced smile was more manic than friendly as he made another latte, hands shaking slightly as he passed it over the counter.

* * *

 

          Bucky Barnes was having a terrible day.

          He woke up from a dream he couldn’t remember (or maybe didn’t want to remember, with shouts and bangs and-)

          He had to pause a moment to breathe through the panic, the remembered sensations rocking his body from side to side. He closed his eyes against the blind fear, regretting his decision when the images flashed behind his eyelids. He breathed hard, trying to remember the exercises his therapist taught him.

          He wished he had taken it more seriously when she was teaching them to him.

          He didn’t remember much about his time overseas. He had flashes - nice memories of fucking around, playing cards with his unit or smoking the odd cigarette on patrol. He remembered the first time he had ever been made to fire his weapon. He remembered (in painfully clear detail, his traitorous brain supplied) the faces of those he gunned down. He remembered the cool metal of a rifle in his hand. The smell of gunpowder. He remembered the breeze across his face. He remembered a bright summer day.

          He didn’t remember much of his time as a POW. On the odd occasion he deigned to talk to her about it, his therapist said something about repressed memories, his brain protecting him from what he had done. He was almost grateful, if only for the mild repreve he got when he was awake.

          When he was asleep, or when he got like _this_ , the memories returned.

          They came in a hail of gunfire and blood, with distant screams and pleas for help. He got the remembered sensations of hunger, of a ravenous thirst that never really ever went away. He heard the voices of men long dead, hisses and cries and prayers that he would have scoffed at if it wasn’t all so dire. The scent of bile. Of blood.

          He could hear a sickening crunch, and feel the throbbing pain of an arm broken and rebroken. That pain followed him into the day, shown in the silhouette of an arm that just never healed quite right.

          He told people it was shrapnel; it saved him a lot of questions, though the pitying looks never really changed.

          He could distantly feel his chest heaving, his lungs screaming for air. When he got like this it was hard to tell the difference between the hot flush of panic and the desert sun baking down on him. Were his shakes from dehydration or fear? Was the ache in his skull from the bright sand, or the effort it was taking to hold his screams in his throat? He didn’t know. He never knew.

          Time passed, though Bucky had no idea how much. When he finally was aware of himself again he was crouched down on the sidewalk, his head between his knees and his hands shaking. He had his arm cradled close towards his body, cowering away from a threat that wasn’t even there. He hissed a sharp breath through his teeth, shrinking into the wall behind him when a woman walking past startled slightly away from him.

          Frustration welled up in his chest as he stood up on shivering legs. What kind of person couldn’t even handle a walk down the fucking street? Apparently him, he was that kind of person.

          Fucked up, that’s what he was. Fucked up arm, fucked up life, fucked up man.

          Christ, he should have just fucking stayed home.

          Bucky swayed as he stood, forcing air in and out of his lungs as he tried to remember just what he was doing. Ah, right, Resilient. He was going to visit the cafe. As to why, he still wasn’t sure.

          (Natasha’s voice echoed through his skull all weekend; “ _you are scaring him,_ ” gathering in an eerie crescendo between his ears until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He wanted to hate her, he wanted to hate Tony. He hated that a small, quiet part of himself liked the homely cafe. He liked when Tony turned to look at him, sweeping by to pour more coffee and rattle off a quip before swanning away. He hated that he liked it, but he had never felt as settled as he did sitting in that cafe, watching the world go by beyond the windows.)

          Bucky noticed things. That’s what he was trained to do - and he was good at it. His problem was that he wasn’t always so good with piecing together all that he noticed. So when after a few visits he began to notice Tony’s shaking hands (especially after a difficult customer, or an unexpected noise, or, or, _or_ ), his tired eyes, or the occasional too-long break in the back, he really didn’t know what to make of it.He knew Tony got nervous when he was around. Bucky figured it was the silence - he wasn’t so good at conversation anymore. Without Tasha or Sam there to buffer he was left floundering, and Tony took the brunt of it.

          So, he supposed, this visit might be his way of getting to the bottom of it. The shakes, the silence, all of it.

          However, as he resumed walking, pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders, he considered that he really didn’t have any right to information about Tony. And why should he? He was just a friend of a friend, a random man who recently began frequenting his cafe.

          Thinking about it, there was no good reason for Bucky to even be curious. It really wasn’t his business as to what was making Tony so damn nervous.

          He was curious, because apparently his brain didn’t care for social niceties like minding your own business. Go figure.

          He walked - ok, stumbled - his way towards Resilient, trying to wrangle his thoughts into some semblance of order. It probably wasn’t the greatest day to try and make friends. Hell, it was probably the worst possible day he could have chosen, but he was already most of the way to the shop, and he had no idea when he was going to get the chance to do this again.

          It wasn’t long before he heard the cheerful chime of the bell as he opened the door, a cheerful greeting called out by the kid that was working the last time he was in. He was joined by a gangly kid who seemed to be multitasking with the espresso machine like a pro, calling out orders with a warbly cheer. The air was warm and smelled of coffee and something sweet. The shop was filled with the sounds of soft music and the murmur of conversation.

          All that to say, Tony was nowhere in sight.

          Bucky tried to tell himself that it didn’t mean anything, that Tony was taking one of his breaks in the back. The thought was soothing, if only he ignored the fact that he seemed to need Tony to be there. He felt his stomach roil as he stepped forward, scanning the back for any sign of familiar brunette curls.

          “Hey! What can I get you today?” Bucky looked up as the gangly brunette addressed him, his more surly counterpart off futzing with the drip coffee pots on the back counter.

          Bucky rattled off the first thing that came to mind, which turned out to be the frilly monstrosity that Natasha had ordered the last time they came in together. It had extra whipped cream and an incredibly generous chocolate drizzle. He thought it would have looked good, if he had any appetite at all.

          “So where’s Tony?” He asked (poorly feigning relaxation) as the taller kid passed over his cup, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was looking around. The kid, who’s tag on his apron named “Harley,” frowned at him, squinting across the counter like he was an idiot.

          “Tony took the rest of the afternoon,” he began, looking a bit suspicious. “He wasn’t feeling very well, so he went upstairs to rest.”

          Bucky felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He was too late. He’d wasted his one chance - Tony was so afraid of him he couldn’t even work in his own shop with Bucky around. Tony must have seen him coming and ducked upstairs instead of being faced with spending more time with Bucky.

          “Uh, dude, are you ok?”

          Bucky snapped out of his thoughts with a gasp, awareness of where he was creeping in. Harley was looking at him all concerned again, eyes flicking up and down his body. Bucky felt tension sending tremors through his shoulders, and his hand was too tight around the cardboard of his cup. He could see it shaking too, little splashes of coffee dashing up through the whipped cream. His chest was heaving. Why was it doing that?

          He turned and left, without a single other word. He couldn’t just stand there anymore, not when while doing so he was hurting someone else. Nevermind that it was Tony, who for some reason kept darting through his head even when he wasn’t around.

          Tony was a good guy, but he was a nervous one. How had Bucky known that, and yet still managed to fuck it up as much as he did? He knew he shouldn’t have gone out that day; his freakout on the way should have shown him that much.

          Nobody wanted to be friends with the guy who couldn’t even walk to the goddamn store without a fit, and why would they? Bucky couldn’t hold down a job - not with a bum arm and a shit brain. All he did was collect his check and sit in silence, waiting for the days to pass.

          Or at least, that’s what he used to do.

          But then, he went out. He saw people, met friends, and found himself actually wanting to _live_ for the first time since he landed back in the states. There was a small, secret part of himself that knew Resilient could have been a home for him, if he had only stuck around long enough to let it.

          But now he ruined it, and there were no second chances for people like him.

          He knew, distantly, that his legs were taking him somewhere. He didn’t know where - he couldn’t get his brain to stop going in circles long enough to figure out what street he was on or what direction he was going in.

          He told himself that he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. It was hard to disagree when he couldn’t really think of anything at all aside from a faint wonder at how his arm could shake so hard and wow where the fuck was he?

          He was supposed to be in the middle of Afghanistan. This was not the desert.

          He looked around - his squad was nowhere to be seen. Where were they? Why wasn’t he in uniform? Where was he? Fuck, _when_ was he?

          His brain felt like it was filled with bees, or maybe wasps, because his head felt like it was being split in two. Even his worst brush with heat stroke had nothing on this, it was like the time he got knocked out cold and his first hangover met, fell in love, caught on fire, and had babies. Lots of babies. All in his brain.

          Despite his confusion (Where are the hostiles? Who’re actual civvies and who are fakes? Are there fakes? Where _was_ he?) his legs kept moving. He had a brief notion that maybe moving was a bad idea, he should really sit down and try to figure out just what the hell was going on. But he didn’t want to. He had too much restless energy, he just wanted to run. He felt like he was going to crawl right out of his skin, would have gladly done it too if it would have helped.

          So, he kept moving, letting his eyes scan the passerby as he went. Everything felt just slightly out of place, not enough to be foreign, but just enough to feel unfamiliar. His head felt kind of funny, like it wasn’t screwed on quite right.

          Nothing felt real, just like it did when he was dreaming. Was he dreaming? If he was it would make sense. This felt like a dream. Maybe it was a dream.

          There was a coffee cup in his hand. Why did he have coffee? When did he get coffee? He took a sip - too cold, and much sweeter than he was expecting.

          Why did he have coffee? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything, really.

          He was somewhat aware he was mumbling to himself: “Sergeant James….. Buchanan Barnes… 32… 32557… 7038... “ Why was he mumbling? He couldn’t remember.

          He couldn’t remember.

          He was walking. Why? Coffee? Why?

          His world was just unanswered questions. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t even know where he was going.

          He looked up. There was a door there. Right in front of him. There was a dull “17” hung to the side of the door. He walked over to it. Touched it. The metal was cold against his fingers. So was the coffee cup.

          He slid to the floor, legs spread in front of him.

          Time slowed

          d

          o

          w

          n.

          He knew his lips were moving. He didn’t know why. Was too tired to ask why. Too tired to wonder at what he was saying.

          Minutes slid by, thick and slow like honey on a spoon. His head rolled on his shoulders and his eyes wandered, glazed and unseeing. He didn’t know where he was.

          He knew his arm hurt. He didn’t need to ask why it hurt. He knew that. It ached in throbbing tandem with his head that even without anything to think couldn’t seem to stop working for a goddamn second. His eyes wouldn’t stay in one place, they kept darting around. They were looking for something, anything that might be hiding in the shadows of the dingey hallway.

          He itched for his rifle, and a safe perch way up high. He contented himself with wherever he was, this hallway that felt odd and yet familiar.

          He slowly returned to himself like that. With small thoughts and sensations.

          He noticed the cup first, tipped over on its side on the carpet. The generic white was broken up by a bright red sleeve, gold lettering smoothing boldly across it. It took a couple tries to read it: “Resilient” it said. Bucky would later want to laugh at the irony. He felt anything but resilient at that moment.

          As he came down from whatever the hell _that_ was he began to take stock of himself. He was shaking. Great big tremors wracked his body, leaving his teeth chattering and his eyes blinking shut of their own accord. He looked up, relieved to see the familiar faded wood grain of his front door. At least he had made it this far.

          It took a few more moments before he was able to reach for the knob, using it to lever himself to his feet. He moved mechanically as he unlocked the door, not bothering to lock it as he shuffled into his apartment.

          He threw himself on the couch, not even bothering to remove his shoes. His heavy eyelids shuttered closed, and he felt himself topple into a dream.

* * *

 

          “Hey old man, how’re you feeling?”

          Tony groaned as he woke, grabbing a pillow and half-heartedly lobbing it towards the voice in the doorway. He heard a huff of laughter, and was startled into awareness by it’s return - neatly hitting him square in the face.

          “You’re a horrible child.” He grumbled, rubbing his hand over his face, wincing at the overgrown stubble that rasped against his palm.

          The nap had been good - if unplanned. Harley had strongly suggested Tony go upstairs after a string of irate customers left him shaking in the back. Tony put up a little more than token protest, but conceded when Harley got Peter on the phone and ganged up on him. He went up to his empty apartment above the shop and sat down on the couch. He had just intended to rest for an hour or so, but after a bleary glance at the clock it looked like he had slept clear through closing time.

          “Hey,” Peter’s voice called from the kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening and closing echoing through the space. “That creepy dude came in again!”

          “Yeah, and he asked for you.” Harley cut in, squinting suspiciously over at Tony from his perch on the armchair. Tony squinted back, though that was more from the low light than any suspicion on his part.

          “Really, you guys need to stop calling him creepy. He’s got PTSD, not leprosy.” Harley had the good sense to look a bit ashamed here, Tony assumed Peter looked the same. “If he was here you should have got me up, I could have said hello or something.”

          “We would’ve, but he got his drink and ducked real fucking fast.” Harley intoned, with Peter making a noise of agreement behind him. “I handed him his drink and he kinda froze for a bit. Then he just turned around and left.”

          “Yeah, it was super weird!” Peter chimed in around the mouthful of hotpocket he must have found somewhere in the cupboard. “I didn’t think people could actually turn that pale. It was kind of gross.”

          Tony rubbed his forehead, trying not to smile so he wouldn’t encourage them. “Ok, well, in the future tell him to stick around for a minute if I’m not downstairs. I get the feeling that he doesn’t talk to too many people.”

          Harley tipped him a jaunty salute and Peter nodded, halfway through his snack and looking at the kitchen like he was going to start looking for more. Tony rolled his eyes, groaning as his back popped when he stood up. “Ok kids, I’m going to bed. Be good, stay safe, yadda yadda.” He got a couple of tired agreements as he walked past, ruffling Harley’s latest attempt at a hair style as he went. “And clean up your mess in the kitchen before you go, Peter.”

          Tony closed the door to his bedroom with a soft snick, hearing a muffled ‘ _yes mom_ ’ from the living room. He rolled his eyes, shimmying out of his jeans and flopping on top of the covers. He stretched his arm out, flicking the lamp off and sighing at the cool darkness that followed.

          He was practically asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh hey, its been a minute. If you follow me on tumblr or pillowfort you probably have the lowdown on why this took way too long! Happy spring everyone, and good luck to everyone entering into finals season, lets pass these classes and go into summer fresh!
> 
> Uh, don't worry, I fix whatever I break - Bucky and Tony will sort this all out! Also, we have a tentative chapter count! I'm thinking one more chapter to wrap this up, and then an epilogue chapter to get the ball rolling. We'll see if that holds once I actually get to drafting the next chapter, though.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends don't let friends wallow alone for long, and difficult conversations are best had through a door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another warning for Bucky's POV, he's not outright suicidal but he's not really into being alive. take care and read for your comfort levels, guys.

          It had been about a week and a half since Tony had last heard from Bucky. That made it about two weeks since he had seen him in person, and he was driving himself a little crazy worrying about him.

          Judging by the dirty looks he was getting from both his staff and friends, he would venture a guess that he was driving them a little crazy too. Good. If he was going to suffer through this then they should suffer too. 

          It had been only a couple days since he had called Sam, who was irritatingly mild about the whole situation. ( _“Tony, what he needs is rest. He’s having difficulty reintegrating into society, and it looks like he’s doing his best to fight it at every turn. It’s great that you want to be his friend, god knows he needs as many as he can get, but you’ve got to understand that you can’t make this journey for him.”_ )

          Bucky didn’t usually go more than a week between visits, even if they had to be short and brusque. Tony's most favorite was where Bucky had walked in from the rain, soaking wet, nodded a greeting to him, then disappeared out the door. Tony had panicked then, too, but after consulting Natasha he reluctantly resolved to wait for a couple days. She seemed to know best where Bucky was involved, because after a few days he was back to skulking in one of Tony’s booths.

          He had been putting it off for a few days - holding out hope that Bucky would slink back like a hungry stray, but he was slowly accepting the reality that he might not come back without a push. Bucky was a bit of a flight risk anyhow, but the way Harley had described him made him sound much worse off than that.

          The only one who seemed to share an iota of his worry was Natasha, and even she couldn’t tell him anything definitive.

          “I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me for days now,” She said, unusually sober as she picked apart a muffin. “I’m worried for him.”

          Tony leaned back on his heels for a moment, shocked. An admission like that was practically a wail of anxiety from Natasha.

          "Can't you call him?" She shook her head. “Don’t you have a spare key?” He questioned, fiddling with a towel just to hide the shake in his hands. “You could walk in and check on him.”

          She gave a rueful laugh, “He used to leave the key out under his welcome mat. He must have moved it inside.” She stared blankly at the countertop. “The last time I tried to knock I didn’t hear anything. All of my calls have gone to voicemail.”

          “You think he’s…” Tony trailed off, unwilling to hazard a guess as to Bucky’s condition.

          Natasha’s mouth screwed up into a sad grin, still turned down towards the counter. “I think he’s a sick man, who has finally reached the end of his rope.”

          Yeah, the worried pang in Tony’s chest pretty much decided his course of action for him. He tossed the rag onto the counter, snagging his phone as he raced to the back room. Natasha didn’t even blink, just kept staring at her clasped hands.

          “Where’s the fire, boss?” Harley called out as Tony stormed past, trying to disentangle himself from when he had pulled his coat on while trying to take his apron off. 

          “Fuck, wait,” He mumbled, wrenching an arm free and untying his apron strings with clumsy fingers. “I need you to cover here; call Peter and close up if I’m not back in time. I’ll comp you both for the time, I’m sorry for the rush-” He cut himself off with the rest of his apron, darting to the door without waiting for a response.

* * *

 

          Bucky felt terrible. No, scratch that, he felt the worst he had ever felt in years. Including the POW time.

          Alright, maybe not the POW time, he thought with a shudder. It was pretty damn near that, though. 

          The last time he had seen daylight was the evening he had stumbled home from Resilient. It had taken all of the next day to get himself off the couch, and he only brought himself to eat when the room started spinning around the middle of the second day. 

          It had been - by his hazy estimate - a week since then. He was down to living off canned peaches and sleeping on the floor because he broke the lamp on his bedside table flailing awake from a nightmare. He couldn’t muster the energy to clean the shards off his sheets, so he just left them.

          After a while, he stopped trying to sleep. Every time he managed it he was sent straight into another nightmare - whether it was bullets flying or men dying or quieter, more visceral fears, his sleep was never restful.

          A tiny voice inside his head pointed out that this wasn’t sustainable. Bucky was finding it hard to feel anything but a dull acceptance of that. It wasn’t dying, not outright, but it wasn’t living either.

          Bucky liked the sound of that. Just fading away into the carpet. Just him, and the low hum of the empty refrigerator. And that knocking sound. 

          Bucky didn’t remember knocking being a regular sound in his apartment. He wasn't expecting visitors. He couldn't really handle anybody else right now. He hoped it wasn’t serious, he didn’t have the energy to care enough to take care of it. Maybe if he stayed very still they would go away. Or he would melt into the floorboards. He was fine with either. So long as it didn’t become anything too loud or sharp - his neighbor had dropped something the other day (he had no idea which day, they all blended together) and it sent him into a blind panic.

          He didn’t have the energy to dodge phantom blows anymore. He just sunk further into the floor, filled with weary acceptance. The knocking continued.

          “Bucky?” He heard, muffled through the door. The voice sounded familiar in a way that drew him back into his body, just enough to feel the deep, pounding ache in his head and his shoulder. He smothered a groan into the carpet, hearing the banging at the door continue.

          “Bucky, I know you’re in there,” A familiar voice called, making Bucky’s heart pick up speed. He knew that voice, that was Tony. That didn’t make any sense, Tony wasn’t supposed to want to see Bucky. Tony was disgusted. Tony didn’t want anything to do with him, that made sense. 

          Tony knocking at his door made no sense.

          Tony carried on for several long moments, occasionally trying a new way to wheedle Bucky out of his apartment. When everything fell silent he was both relieved and disappointed. 

          “I don’t know what’s wrong, but ‘Tasha says you’re very sick.” Tony said, his voice soft and sad. Bucky felt something inside of him shudder at that. He wasn’t crazy - he wasn’t. 

          A tiny, tiny corner of his mind asked how that was so when he was curled up on the carpet in the corner of his living room. How was that so when he didn’t even know what day it was, or when he ate last. How was he anything but crazy when he slept curled up in the corner of his living room, wishing for the comfort of a gun in his hands to sleep soundly.

          “That’s ok,” Tony continued. Bucky’s heart twinged a bit. Tony was too kind. “It’s ok if you’re sick, we can get you help,” Bucky shook his head, grinding his forehead into the floor. He tried going to the shrink. It hadn’t worked. He just wasn’t the kind of person you could help. It was kind of Tony to want to help. He was a good man.

          “So, I’m just gonna put myself out there and say that I like you. A lot." That still didn't make any sense to Bucky. Tony wasn't supposed to like him. Nobody liked him. He was broken. "And in case I wasn’t being clear, I mean that romantically, as well as platonically.” Bucky felt his brain grind to a halt. Tony continued talking, but Bucky couldn’t hear a word he was saying. He found himself rolling slightly towards the door, numbly watching Tony’s shadow through the crack under the door.

          Bucky wasn’t processing Tony’s words, but his tone became quick and nervous, like it would when he was getting worked up about something in the shop. Bucky had never liked that tone. It was too placating, too apologetic, and almost always made its appearance when Tony had no real reason to apologize. It frustrated Bucky that he was the cause of it - he had no idea how to stop it.

          He tested out the idea of getting up in his mind. He could walk to the door, tell Tony how he felt. That thought made his heart feel like it was going to beat out of his chest, and it was the most alive he had felt in days. It might help Tony, too. That was the most important part. Tony could stop overthinking this, and go back to his cafe, back to his life.

          Plan decided, Bucky made to stand up, and was hindered by the weakness in his limbs. His legs shook, and he leaned heavily on the arm of the couch while his vision swam in and out of focus. He staggered his way to the door, stepping heavily until he could lean right up against the doorframe.

          “I really like you too, Tony.” He said, resting his aching head against the door. He let the rest of his sentence go unsaid. He was scared of this; nothing good in his life had ever stuck around. It never came for free.

          “Hey, buddy,” Tony said, audibly sounding relieved. “You gonna open the door for me?”

          Bucky felt the words on his tongue wither and die as he contemplated opening the door. Seeing Tony’s expectant face. Feeling like a failure when his face would fall, when disappointment and disgust would fill his eyes. Feeling his heart fall to the floor when he would walk away, never to be seen again. “I’d… rather not.”

          “Alright.” Tony replied easily, and they fell into silence. Bucky wanted to fill it, but he had no idea what to say. 

          “I’m also gonna go out on a limb here and say that neither of us is ready to do something like this without the very real possibility of it going up in flames-” Tony said, sounding brisk and nervous. Bucky felt chill acceptance numb his veins. There is was, the letdown. “No, listen to me sweetheart, because I’m not trying to be mean but it’s something we both have to consider. I’m still toting shit around from my dad - shit I should have handled years ago if I’m being honest - and you’ve still got baggage from the military, and probably other stuff too. That’s not to say that I don’t want to try this, because I do, but I am asking if we can take a, uh, raincheck on actually casting off the loveboat, at least for a while.”

          “A raincheck?”

          “Let’s put off actually dating until we both feel like we’re in a better place.” Tony offered. Bucky let himself consider the idea for a moment. It didn’t seem like it should be that simple. “I’m not saying that I don’t want you to come around anymore - quite the opposite actually - but any heavier stuff should be saved until we both have some more experience under our belts.”

          “I guess that makes sense. It couldn’t hurt.” The possibility of the whole situation was making Bucky nervous, but it almost felt. Pleasant. It wasn’t an emotion he could ever recall experiencing, but this anticipation seemed to suit Tony. 

          “Bucky I want this to work. I really do because honestly having you around has felt pretty good. I don’t know how long it’ll last and honestly we might get to a place of stability and figure out that the dating thing isn’t for us, and that’s ok. But I want to give it my best shot from the start, and that means giving us a foundation to build up on.”

          “So…” Bucky wanted clarification. This still all sounded too good to be true, he was half convinced this was a fever dream, or that he was stuck somewhere in the desert and dreaming this up to get himself away from his own body. There was never a future where Tony stayed - right? 

          Bucky was pretty sure he wasn’t dreaming this up; he wasn’t so creative or hopeful to be able to make up something like this. He didn’t have the heart to tempt himself into thinking up someone as beautiful and kind as Tony.

          “Just friends. For now.” Tony sounded relieved. Bucky was relieved. He slumped a little heavier into the door, feeling some tension leave his shoulders as he attempted to melt into the scuffed wood.

          “Would you let me in now?” Tony asked, sounding a little frustrated. “It’s cold and the fact that you’re hiding is a bit concerning.” 

          Bucky felt flush. He looked down - at least he was wearing pants. He was pretty sure they were his ratty flannel pajama pants with a hole in the ass, but he was covered. 

          He opened the door to Tony, who was bundled up in a coat and dressed like he had just come from the shop. There was a long pause where they just took the other in, taking breaths large enough to hear in the space between them.

          “Can I come in?” Tony asked, looking like a dream standing in his doorway. Bucky wouldn't have ever dreamed of refusing him.

          Bucky was helpless to respond, just motioned him inside with the ghost of a smile. Tony breezed past him, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of coffee and a light peck on Bucky’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been a while? sorry.
> 
> I lied about the epilogue, but as you can see this is now part of a series! I intend to continue this au, so there will be more to come! I want to thank not only the Winteriron exchange folks for organizing the exchange (way back in december, oops?) but also gryvon, who has been very kind and patient and gave me the opportunity to write my own overdone cafe fic.
> 
> another Huge Thanks goes out to all of you, who subscribed and bookmarked and left kudos and comments! none of it went unappreciated, thank you all!
> 
> as always, you can see me on [tumblr](https://nativemossy.tumblr.com/), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/nativemossy), or [dreamwidth](https://nativemossy.dreamwidth.org/)!


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